


A Conductor Rescues an Imprisoned Auror and Becomes His Bodyguard

by CasualThursday



Category: Baccano!, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied Claire Stanfield Interrogation Methods, Implied/Referenced Murder, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualThursday/pseuds/CasualThursday
Summary: Newt Scamander arrives in New York City in December 1926. Coincidently, so does Claire Stanfield. He inadvertently rescues Percival Graves.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	A Conductor Rescues an Imprisoned Auror and Becomes His Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can’t say nothing: I am a Harry Potter fan AND I’m a supporter of trans rights. The transphobic comments made by an author who created a world full of love and magic were deeply hurtful and disappointing. Transphobes can go climb a tree and get stuck up there. :) Then, while they wait for rescue, they should take a thorough look at their life choices and internal bigotry.

Claire hadn’t been back to New York City in a little over a year. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what was going on— he sent letters when he felt like it and received some back, he splurged for telegrams when he couldn’t return for the holidays, and made sure to find a phone box to call Ma Gandor at least once a month, because she was a sweetheart who worried too much and the Gandor brothers (Claire included) had a pact that anyone who caused her unnecessary stress would be Tick’s next test subject.

Usually he was somewhere warmer during the winter months, but since the circus disbanded and he’d started his job as a conductor, he’d been letting the job take him wherever they needed him to go. If he found additional work in the cities they stopped in, that was just fortuitous. This year, the rails took him back to New York City for a few days.

The train arrived in New York City in the late afternoon, so after going about cleaning the cars and finishing up his duties, he waved goodbye to Tony, suitcase in hand, and stepped off into Pennsylvania Station. It was early evening on a Sunday, which meant that when he made it outside, it wasn’t nearly as crazy as it could be, but the streets were bustling with those people finding their ways home after evening mass. He breathed out, watching his breath fog in the air before dissipating into nothing. He glanced in the direction of Hell’s Kitchen and home, before sighing and making his way towards Chumley’s and his next target instead. He took his time, making sure to cut through back alleys, eyes cataloging the shuttered windows for a place to clean up afterward. 

In the poorer parts of town, there was always at least one— a building or part of one that was past the point of repair or the owners past the point of being able to afford it— and Claire was climbing up and picking the lock to one soon enough. It took some doing, and he must have felt more tired than he thought because his eyes kept sliding away from the door and he had a strange, itching feeling that he’d forgotten to shut the stove off. He pushed the feeling aside though, because he didn’t  _ have _ a stove, and once the door was open, the feeling vanished along with the tired, fuzzy sensation filling his brain, leaving Claire feeling positively  _ energetic _ for his job.

He took in the darkness of the apartment, noting the layer of dust that indicated two or three days without a visitor, the stacked boxes right next to empty shelves. There was a spare amount of furniture, and a tiny furnace for heat, but the buckets everywhere and the crack in the wall stuffed with newspaper leeching winter air from outside made it even more unlikely that someone would return anytime soon. Claire took the more intact of the two chairs to shove up under the doorknob, just in case.

He put his suitcase down, and went around looking at the levels of water, somehow not frozen and then the kitchen sink— even if the taps didn’t run, he’d be able to wash up afterward. Claire went to the window, jimmied the wooden slats over the window open enough to slip onto the fire escape, moved slats back into place, and then made his way up to the roof.

After all, he had work to do.

The job was quick, and the body disposed of in Brooklyn to be found later— this particular client wanted the body identified, after all. Claire even went through the trouble of keeping the face intact, though there wasn’t much left of the rest of him, and left a note pinned with a letter opener to the client’s desk with the location. He’d managed to keep most of the blood off the snow white paper, too.

He was back in the rundown apartment before midnight, washing the blood from his skin and hair, and considered rinsing out his shirt as best as he could before giving it up as a lost cause. He was glad he’d changed beforehand and elected to leave his jacket behind— he only had one extra shirt. Claire was still perfecting his technique, and so far it was a matter of trial and error on how much he had to clean up afterwards, but he was learning quickly.

Claire found the tiny apartment furnace, tossed the shirt in, and lit a match. He waited until it caught fire properly before moving to his suitcase again to find another shirt, giving a cursory look to make sure the blood didn’t leak through to his undershirt, before setting it on top of the case and stretching. The job tonight wasn’t nearly enough to be a challenge, but it was good practice, just enough exercise to leave him content, if not satisfied. These days he was new, pretty much a nobody to those wishing to hire a hitman, and, more often than not, when his clients took one look at him, they ended up laughing in his face. He had to build up a proper reputation first, so Claire tolerated it for now. It helped that they were very much  _ not _ laughing once they got their proof that he’d finished the job.

He sat down on the floor, eyes already adjusted to the pitch darkness, and watched patiently for his old shirt to disintegrate to ash before attempting to leave. It was cold and quiet, that much quieter because of the empty apartments around this one. Claire tipped his head back, closing his eyes, taking the moment to breath.

In the quiet, there was a low drag, the sound of something heavy and clothed against floorboards. 

Slowly, Claire opened his eyes and turned his head towards the sound. There was a box, unassuming and small with a padlock on the front, sitting on top of a stack of old bedsheets on the only remaining chair being propped up with a crate. Claire rose silently and stepped forward, pausing when he heard the drag again. Definitely from the box this time.

He studied it from all angles and gently tried the lock before returning to his suitcase for his tools. It took some doing, and a surprising amount of sparks, but he got it open eventually.

Once it was open, Claire whistled lowly. “Well. You don’t see that every day.”

Inside, it looked like the room of a dollhouse: tiny wooden floorboards, tiny table and chair, tiny books stacked in the corner, complete with a tiny doll, curled up in the corner like someone had dropped it before leaving. Except, the doll looked odd— Claire couldn’t imagine many people wanting a doll of a middle-aged man. It was eerily life-like, with dark hair graying at the temples, impossibly detailed facial features. It even had tiny suspenders and shoes. 

The tiny face twitched and shuddered, and moved slightly, the sound from earlier matching. 

The sound didn’t match the size, and Claire wondered if this was like one of the illusions from the circus, but without an audience, he couldn’t see the point of setting something up this elaborate. Especially because the tiny man didn’t look good— considering the tattered state of his clothes and the streaks of dirt and blood. He reached in, and watched in fascination as his hand seemed to shrink, looking distorted like the reflection in a trick mirror. 

“Huh,” Claire said, and dove forward.

There was a bit more to fall than he expected, but he landed lightly and easily as always. The room was now full-sized, as was the tiny man from before. Closer now, Claire could see that the man had his hands and feet bound, and that he’d clearly been tortured— though with  _ what _ Claire couldn’t pinpoint. He was just a beginner, though. 

Claire crouched next to him. “Hey, you awake?”

The man flinched away, curling tighter to himself.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Claire continued. “You wanna get outta here?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I mean, I could just leave you, but you don’t seem too good. And I don’t think you’re here ‘cause you  _ wanna  _ be.”

“Grindelwald—” 

Claire blinked. “Bless you.”

“No—” The man shifted, turning over with a hiss of pain. His face was pale, shadows haunting his eyes and a cut across his forehead that had leaked blood down his face. “Grindelwald. You’re with him—”

“I don’t know any Grindelwald,” Claire answered.

The man laughed. “Sure.” He sneered. “What kinda game are you playing now, then?”

“None at the moment,” Claire said, shrugging. “And since you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to prove it, won’t I?” 

Claire moved forward, ignoring the way the man squirmed back, trying to get away, and whimpered when he jostled his probably broken leg. He easily hefted the man over his shoulder, and used the corner to leap his way up and out of the box. He put the man down carefully, leaning him up against the wall. 

The man breathed out heavily. “How— how’d you— where’s your wand?”

“Wand?” Claire repeated, shutting and locking the box again, and leaning down to check on the fire’s progress. It was pretty much done, completely burned and only smoldering now, so Claire grabbed a bucket and doused it. “I was an acrobat.” So this man was a magician; Claire didn’t know their rivalries could get so heated.

When Claire glanced back, the man looked stunned. “You’re not— you don’t  use one at all?”

“No?” Claire scrunched his nose. “I just said— I did some trapeze work, that sort of thing.”

“But you— you don’t know Grindelwald?”

“Never even  met the fella.” Claire shrugged. “So, you gotta name or somethin’?”

“Graves,” the man said, reaching out a mostly uninjured hand.

“Stanfield,” Claire said, shaking the hand firmly, but not too firm as to jostle bruised bones. “What do you say about getting outta here, Mister Graves?”

Graves smiled grimly. “I’d say that’s an excellent idea, Mister Stanfield.”

Claire grinned. He stood up, returning to his suitcase to pull on the new dress shirt. 

“Why were you even here?”

“Needed somewhere to clean up,” Claire answered honestly, tucking his shirt in and pulling up his suspenders. “Family isn’t expecting me ‘til tomorrow and I didn’t wanna look like a slob.”

“And you chose an abandoned tenement building?” Graves huffed.

“Are you complaining?”

“No,” Graves said. 

“So you’re just the suspicious sort.” Claire shrugged on his coat. “You a copper?”

“No,” Graves repeated.

“Oh, a dick, then.” At the sharp look Graves threw him, Claire waved a hand. “Or whatever  you call yourselves .”

“You seem to be taking this very well,” Graves noted. “Rescuing a man from his kidnappers. More than normal, that is.”

Claire snickered. “I’m hardly normal.” He squinted at Graves. “You can’t walk can you?”

“Not on my own.”

“Anyplace to go?”

“No,” Graves muttered. “Someone’s impersonating me— nowhere is safe.”

Claire hummed to himself. He held his suitcase in one hand as he helped Graves to his feet with the other, slinging Graves’ arm over his shoulders. 

Graves gave a gasp. “There’s— there’s someone in danger— someone I need to protect.”

“I don’t think you can do much protecting as you are,” Claire said. 

There was another sharp breath as they started walking. “You think I don’t know that?”

Claire would have shrugged but that might just make Graves bleed again. “So you wanna head there?”

“Later,” Graves said shortly. “Right now, I need a healer.”

“Sure,” Claire said. “Mulberry Street it is, then.”

Claire got them down the several flights of stairs and to the street and to a cab, making sure to leave a big tip so the driver kept his mouth shut. 

“This is… Little Italy,” Graves mumbled. He looked woozy, blinking far too much. “And this place is…”

“Well, yeah. But I know them, they have stuff for first aid here.” Claire frowned. “You live under a rock or somethin’?”

“No.” Graves sounded grumpy now. “But we aren’t to interact with no-majs—”

“With what now?” But Graves had suddenly slumped forward, and Claire was forced to shift him onto his shoulders to carry him inside Coraggioso without answers.

There were four men at a table inside playing cards, and another sitting at another table cleaning… scissors?

“Hey, what’d’ya doing, kid?” One of them called out. “This place is for adults.”

Claire was tempted to roll his eyes until he spotted Nicola, who was frowning down at his cards, and he grinned instead. “Sure it is. But that’d make Luck even more of a kid than me, right?”

“Why you—”

“Stanfield?” Nicola looked surprised. “That you?”

Claire’s grin widened. “Who else would it be?”

Nicola chuckled. “I heard you were coming, but…” He eyed Graves. “I didn’t believe it.”

“I’m a bit early,” Claire told him. “And then got a bit sidetracked. That kit still around?”

“Yeah, in the back. Tick?”

The guy polishing his scissors in the corner looked up. “Yes, Mista Nico?”

“Fetch the med stuff for us?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Tick gave Claire a once over before leaving.

“What’d you get into, kid?” Nicola asked. “Need someone to get rid of that for you?” He nodded at Graves.

“What, him?” Claire shook his head. “No, I know how to clean up my own messes. I ran into this one and thought, why not?”

“Here it is,” Tick said, reappearing with a box in his arms. “You need help with that?”

Claire grinned, setting Graves onto the couch. “I’m trying to keep him together, not pick him apart.” He paused, considering the scissors that Tick had picked up again. “I’ll let you know if that changes, though.”

“Need someplace to stay?” Nicola asked.

“Nah. Just wanted to patch him up. I’ll get a hotel or something.” Claire started cataloging Graves’ injuries and picking out the supplies that he would need.

Nicola frowned. “Not going home?”

“And show up at Ma Gandor’s at this hour?” Claire gave him an incredulous look and Nicola winced.

“Right, stupid question,” Nicola muttered. “Do  _ you _ need anything?”

“I’m alright for now,” Claire told him, packing up his supplies. He made a note to restock the Coraggioso’s supplies soon— he wasn’t lying about cleaning up after himself. “I’ll stop by tomorrow or the day after.”

“It’s good to see you, kid,” Nicola told him, patting Claire on the shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to join, still?”

Claire chuckled. “I’m no Gandor, Nicola.”

“You’re as good as,” Nicola said firmly.

Claire shrugged. “I still get antsy being in one place.” He glanced at Tick as he put Graves over his shoulder again. “Glad to see your new specialist is working out.” He saw Tick twitch in surprise.

“Mister Luck will tell you more about it.”

“I’m sure he will.” As Claire left, he caught someone asking “who the hell was he?” right before the door swung shut.

  
  


Percival woke up to a new ceiling. He stared at it, uncomprehending, for a moment. Had Grindelwald moved him? 

“You’re awake.”

He started, looking towards the voice.

It was Stanfield. Yesterday wasn’t a dream.

Now, in the better light and with noticeably less pain causing his vision to swim, he could actually make out what Stanfield looked like.

He was young, much younger than he’d expected, barely twenty, if that, with brilliant red hair the color of blood. He was perched on a chair, reading the paper with his sleeves rolled up, without a jacket or waistcoat, and tie nowhere to be seen. Stanfield folded the paper and put it aside.

“You feeling okay?”

Percival grunted and shimmied up to lean against the headboard. “Better than before,” he said finally. He looked down to see bandages under his shirt and on his arms and hands, felt the stiffness of a splint around his knee.

“You patched me up?” Percival asked.

“Well, yeah. You were getting blood on the sheets.” Stanfield rose smoothly and approached, putting his hands in his pockets as he stopped by the foot of the bed. “I’ll help get you where you need to go, but I’ve got family to meet.”

“Right,” Percival muttered. “And I don’t  _ have _ anywhere to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because a criminal is running around wearing my face,” Percival muttered.

“Sounds complicated,” Stanfield commented, looking interested but not alarmed. 

“I can do some work without a wand, but not everything,” Percival continued. “Can you get me to Woolsworth?”

“Sure thing.” Stanfield tilted his head slightly, considering, and if he were a weaker man, Percival would have flinched at the sharpness of his gaze. “If you need more, I’m available for the rest of today. For a fee.”

Percival frowned at the thought of relying on someone else to help him, but he shifted and the shock of pain reminded him just how much he was currently unable to work on his own.

“What’s your fee?” Percival asked with a sigh.

“Sixty-five for the day,” Stanfield said. 

“Dollars?” Percival raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not takin’ jellybeans,” Stanfield said, stepping back to the desk in the corner, quickly straightening his shirt, buttoning it up and putting on a vest and tie. “You need a disguise or something?”

“Yeah,” Percival said. “Can you—”

“Sure.” Stanfield was back, looking neat and clean and almost like a respectable young man if Percival hadn’t first met him breaking into an abandoned apartment. He had a small case in his hand, but when he opened it, there wasn’t a wand.

“How are you—?” Percival started, but quieted when Stanfield held out a pair of glasses.

“You haven’t shaved in a while,” Stanfield noted. “You usually clean shaven?”

“Yes,” Percival muttered, accepting the glasses.

“Well, you have a beard now,” Stanfield told him. “We’re going to where you work, right?”

Percival pushed aside the uneasy feeling aside for now because he was low on options, but also  _ how _ did Stanfield seem to  _ know _ —?

“Right then. It’s around ten o’clock,” Stanfield said. “When do you wanna move?”

“The sooner the better,” Percival muttered. He frowned. “How’d I even  _ get _ here?”

Stanfield shrugged. “You aren’t  _ that _ heavy.”

  
  


Claire hadn’t been in this part of the Woolworth building before, and considered whether Graves’ magician friends had a big illusion set up all the time, before dismissing it. It wasn’t important. What  _ was _ important was the way Graves stopped short when looking at the clock-looking above them, which was pointing ominously to  _ Severe Unexplained Activity _ .

Graves’ cursed. “We need to work quickly,” he muttered, hurrying along as quickly as he could with the cane Claire had acquired for him. “I need a wand, and then we need to get to Credence—”

“Alright,” Claire agreed. “Would any do?”

“Well, yes—”

“Okay.” Claire noticed  _ all _ the people in the building had wands. It was rather odd— he hadn’t known the magician community was so big. “And where’s Credence?”

“In front of Steele Bank, I’m guessing—” Graves stopped suddenly, staring at a few mugshots posted on the wall. Claire almost ran into him while he was smiling apologetically to the affronted gentleman he’d bumped into, but was soon distracted by the mugshots. They were  _ moving _ . Claire resolved to steal one to show his brothers later— 

“And for some reason, one of my most promising employees has become a wanted fugitive,” Graves muttered. “And is collaborating with Theseus Scamander’s brother, who unleashed several dangerous magical creatures into the city.” He sighed, reaching up to his face before stopping. Probably forgot about the glasses. “Right. Change of plans—”

“Credence first?” 

“Yes, but I need a wand—”

Claire slipped a slim stick into Graves’ hand. “Will that do?”

Graves blinked at him in surprise. “Right. Thank you—” He took it. “Are you sure you won’t need—?”

“Not my thing.” Claire turned them to head back out, but Graves stopped them.

“Here,  it’s quicker this way —” Graves grabbed his shoulder and then—

It was like riding the edge of the train, or flipping through the air on the trapeze but sped up, leaving Claire with a breathless laugh on his lips as they emerged on the other side, somewhere  _ completely  _ different.

“Alright?” Graves asked, looking at him strangely. 

“That was fun,” Claire chirped. 

“Do you not usually…?” Graves trailed off.

“Never done that before,” Claire informed him. He stretched his arms over his head. “Now what?”

“Going to where he lives,” Graves said, walking out of the alley and down the street. 

“And what are we doing when we get there?”

“Protecting him,” Graves replied bluntly. “Grindelwald’s been using him for… for something. It has to stop.”

“Won’t stopping this Grindel guy be much faster?”

Graves stopped and looked at Claire sternly. “Murder is illegal.”

Claire shrugged, which somehow made Graves sigh again, but he continued forward nonetheless. “We’ll have to pretend to be interested in the cause his mother is so fanatical about—”

“Which is?”

“Another Salem.” Graves laughed bitterly. “Destroying witches and riding the world of their evil ways.”

“Ah.” Berga had complained about them more than once.

They stopped outside a dingy little church on Pike Street. Graves knocked sharply, but didn’t bother to wait before opening the door and stepping inside. Claire caught sight of a brightly colored tapestry of two hands breaking a wand under the letters NSPS. It was strangely colorful in an otherwise dull and grim looking room.

The Second Salemers, Claire realized. He’d heard about them from Ma Gandor, after the leader had shown up after mass looking to gather more supporters. The words she had were not complimentary. 

Inside the room, Claire stayed in the shadows and noted the exits, the people in the room— an older woman, a man and woman, both young adults, and a young girl. The Barebones, Claire remembered.

“Credence,” Graves said immediately, without preamble.

“Mister— Mister Graves?” The man was shaking and looked  _ terrified _ , eyes flashing between Graves and the older woman, who must be his mother.

There was silence, and then— 

“Credence,” the Barebone mother said slowly. “What is this?”

“Ma—” 

“We need to go,” Graves said.

The mother looked between Graves and Credence with narrowed eyes. “Who is this, Credence?”

Credence hunched his shoulders and slouched, trying to make himself look smaller— The mother stalked towards him, and her arm lifted.

Graves had his wand out quickly, but Claire was already there, catching her descending hand in a firm grip.

“No need for that,” Claire told her, but let her go when she jerked her arm away.

“Witches,” the mother hissed, “Both of you witches! Credence, you are  _ dirty _ with the sins of those you call friends—”

“Hey now,” Claire interrupted. “First of all, I’ve never met any of you before.” He looked at Credence, who immediately shifted his gaze away. “Nice to meet you.” He turned back to the mother. “Second—” Claire smiled, relishing in how the woman flinched back, eyes widening. “Don’t assume to know what kinda sins I’m into.”

“Credence,” Graves said, a pleading tone entering his voice. “We need to  _ go _ —” He flicked his wand at the mother, and then the woman, and the girl and they all got a dazed look in their eyes. “ _ Please _ .”

Credence looked frozen in place. “Want me to grab him?” Claire asked.

Graves nodded, looking paler by the second, so Claire wrapped an arm firmly, but not roughly, around Credence’s shoulders and ushered them out.

“Where to now?” Claire asked. 

“We need to talk,” Graves rasped. “Somewhere safe—” He reached out again, and the world whirled away again.

They were on a roof, and Claire quickly caught sight of Penn Station across the way. 

“Mister Graves!” Credence cried, moving forward as Graves collapsed. 

“I’m alright, Credence,” Graves gasped, letting Claire lower him to the ground. “I’m alright.”

Credence looked disbelieving, and Claire didn’t blame him.

“Can you do anything to help with that?” Claire asked, nodding at the wand still in Graves’ hand.

Graves let out a breath. “Right,” he muttered, waving it, and Claire watched with interest as the lines of pain on his face faded slightly. “He used curses,” Graves explained. “Those, those take more to heal.”

“Who?” Credence whispered. “Who did this to you?”

“Mister Stanfield,” Graves said. “What day is it?”

“December 7,” Claire said. “You need to pick somethin’ up?”

Graves huffed. “Not particularly.” He put a hand on Credence’s arm. “Credence. I have been away since the second— someone else has been impersonating me. Can you remember what he’s— what  _ I’ve _ been telling you.”

Credence stared at Graves, and then his eyes filled with tears. “Oh,” he said simply, dropping to his knees. “I— I thought something was—” He hiccuped.

Claire decided to join them, sitting next to them on the rooftop and Credence flinched away.

Claire ignored it. “Claire Stanfield,” he said, holding out his hand.

After a long hesitation, Credence took only his fingers, and Claire caught sight of raw, red skin on Credence’s palm. He briefly considered going back to Pike Street and dishing out punishment, but there would be time later.

“Credence Barebone,” Credence whispered. He paused, brow furrowing. “Claire?”

Claire chuckled. “Not the only one with an unusual name, are you?” 

Credence relaxed and gave him a tentative smile. 

Graves frowned at Claire, but didn’t say anything other than— “Credence.”

Credence snapped back towards Graves. “Yes, Mister Graves. You, um, he wanted me to find someone. Someone near Ma, no older than ten. You—  _ he _ , he said the child was powerful.” His face twisted, on the verge of tears again. “But how do I know you’re  _ you _ ?”

Graves faltered. “I don’t know…”

Credence looked heartbroken.

There was a rustle behind them and Claire was on his feet in an instant, but he only caught sight of a door creaking in the wind. “You don’t have any code words or something?” Claire asked, eyes still combing the area.

“Grindelwald had access to my memories,” Graves said roughly. “There’s nothing he  _ wouldn’t _ know.”

“You don’t have any mutual acquaintances?” Claire asked, turning his eyes back to the two still sitting on the ground. “How’d you even meet each other anyway?”

“Several months ago,” Graves answered. “I was shown the pamphlets his mother has them all pass out. My subordinate mentioned that the Second Salemers might be a threat, so I decided to investigate.”

“Miss Tina,” Credence said suddenly. “Was it Miss Tina?”

“Yes, but how did you—”

“She rescued me,” Credence said quietly. “From Ma, a few days ago.”

Graves looked at him sharply. “But you remember what happened?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Claire cracked his neck with a sigh, and the two of them, clearly lost in their own world, jumped. “Right, so this lady, you can contact her?”

“Yes,” Graves said, raising his wand and flicking it. A cloud of silver mist emerged, coalescing into the shape of a panther, but it had an extra pair of legs. “Find Goldstein. The Percival Graves she’s been seeing for the past week, it’s actually Grindelwald. He’s looking for an Obscurus— ”

The panther rubbed against Graves’ shoulder before leaping away and through the roof.

“I’m not even gonna pretend to know what’s going on,” Claire said dryly. “Should we keep moving?”

“Yes,” Graves agreed, grabbing hold of them again. The world twisted again, and when it stopped, Credence collapsed to the ground, looking green in the face.

Claire looked around. “Good choice,” Claire commented. “I’ve always liked Central Park.” There was a small sound, and a writhing at Claire’s side, coming from his pocket. Claire glanced at it, and pulled the opening aside to look.

Inside was a strange, feathery looking snake. Or was it a snake-like bird?

“Oh, hello,” Claire said. “How’d you get in there?” The creature chirruped, nipping at Claire’s fingers. Carefully, he lifted it out, and it immediately wound itself around his wrist, chirping again. “Hey, is this a dragon?”

Graves looked at him askance. “Of course it’s not.”

Claire shrugged and coaxed it back into his pocket. It nuzzled his fingers and Claire had to smile, reminded of both the constrictors and the lions from the circus— 

“Oh Mercy Lewis,” Graves breathed. “Scamander’s menagerie—”

Claire brightened. “So it  _ is _ magic then?”

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be surprising—”

Credence leaned closer to see, as the creature poked its head out of Claire’s pocket to observe the world. “Are you sure it’s not a dragon?”

“Yes,” Graves said firmly. “Now, Mister Stanfield, how is your defense?”

“About as good as my offense, I suppose,” Claire mused. “I’ve never had trouble before.”

“What is it that you do?” Credence asked.

“I’m a conductor.”

“How the hell is  _ that _ supposed to be useful—” Graves growled, but he was cut off by the large silvery panther leaping into view again, followed by a single popping sound that was accompanied by two people materializing out of thin air.

“What a circus,” Claire breathed. These people really should take their show on the road— The newcomers had wands out and pointed in their direction, so Claire would have to suggest the career change idea later. 

“Sir—” The woman said and stopped abruptly. “Credence? What’re you—”

“Credence  _ is _ the Obscurus, Goldstein,” Graves interrupted, making the woman, who must be Tina, jerk in surprise. “Grindelwald wants him for  _ who _ knows what—”

“What?” Credence whispered, but the others were now arguing too loudly to hear. 

“He— Credence is a no-maj, he can’t have been what’s destroying the city—”

“I’m what he’s looking for?” Credence muttered to himself, hunching in again and staring at the grass, and Claire felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Credence seemed to be… smoking? Or disintegrating, maybe.

“Hey,” Claire said, putting a hand on his shoulder, just to make sure he was still solid. Credence raised his head to look at him with strangely cloudy eyes. “These people look like they’re in your corner, right?”

Credence bit his lip. “You… you protected me earlier.”

“Well, yeah,” Claire said easily. “You don’t seem like the type who deserved what your ma wanted to give you.”

Credence whimpered, ducking away again, but Claire kept his hand on Credence’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Claire repeated, softer this time. “How about I make you a promise, and you go back to being solid?”

“What— what’s that?” 

“That woman will never lay a hand on you again,” Claire said seriously. For the first time, Credence actually met his eyes. “I swear it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Credence’s eyes filled with tears again, and he wiped at them furiously. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Claire told him. “As long as you don’t turn into a strange cloud. It’d be hard to get all the pieces of you back in one place.”

Credence actually giggled, and then seemed to notice that the others were watching them with varying levels of surprise, confusion, and incredulity on their faces. 

“My… my creatures,” one of the newcomers said. British, definitely. “I still need—”

“Mister Stanfield,” Graves said. “Your… stowaway.”

“Ah, but they’re so cute,” Claire said, but gamely scooped the creature out of his pocket again. It trilled a little, licking at his fingers.

“Oh, unusual,” the man muttered. 

“Unusual, Mister Scamander?” Graves repeated tiredly.

“Oh, occamy aren’t very affectionate, unless I have something bloody for them—”

Claire checked his nails. Eh, he cleaned them as best as he could’ve. The occamy continued to nuzzle Claire’s hands.

“A regular carnivore, huh,” Claire muttered, grinning. “Too bad we’re not near a butcher shop.”

“May I…?” The man said, shuffling forward. 

“Sure,” Claire said, letting the man take the occamy with careful hands, not even flinching when the occamy bit at him.

The man set down his suitcase, opened it, and disappeared inside.

Claire crouched down to look at it. “This like that box I found you in?”

Graves looked bewildered. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Sir,” Tina said firmly. “If Grindelwald is impersonating you, we need to warn MACUSA.”

“Then take Credence and Scamander and I’ll go,” Graves ordered. “Keep them hidden as long as you can, until you hear from my Patronus again—”

“That’ll just lead to them killing you when you show your face,” Claire said, looking up from his inspection of Scamander’s suitcase. “Look, you’re a higher up, right? They won’t question it if Grindel goes and rubs you out. Bring him to you and let me handle it.”

“Let  _ you _ handle it,” Tina said incredulously. “Our people are  _ trained  _ for this, as am I—” She shook her head. “I don’t know who you are but you are  _ not  _ a trained Auror.”

Claire couldn’t disagree with  _ that _ — he could hardly be trained in something he’d never heard of before, could he?

“So get on a train and leave,” Claire suggested with a shrug. “At least Credence— he’s not safe here, right?”

“Yes, but—”

Scamander’s head reappeared. “I would suggest hiding Credence in the suitcase, but Grindelwald knows about it.”

“How long can you stay down there?” Claire asked, nodding at the suitcase. “You can take a train to get out of the city—”

“With that many magical creatures with him?” Graves interjected. “It was a serious risk that he came here in the first place—”

“And he came by no-maj transport,” Tina added grimly. At Graves’ inquiring look, she winced. “Ship, sir.”

“Wouldn’t that be better then?” Claire asked. “Less expected, at least.”

“They’re still recognizable—”

Claire shrugged, backing up so Scamander could fully exit the suitcase. 

“I— I can call him here,” Credence said quietly. He shrank from the sudden attention. “He gave me this—” He pulled out a pendant on a chain from around his neck.

Graves inhaled sharply. “And he gave this to you…”

“For when I found the child,” Credence finished.

“So we deal with Grindelwald ourselves?” Scamander asked.

“No,” Graves said, “We get Credence to safety first—”

“I—” Credence gasped and ripped the pendant from around his head and threw it from him. “It  _ burned _ me—”

There was a loud crack and another Percival Graves appeared from thin air.

“Miss Goldstein,” the new Graves said. “That man is an impersonator—”

Graves growled, moving to put Credence behind him. Tina looked at the new Graves with open suspicion.

“I don’t think so, Grindelwald—”

Grindelwald smirked. “Too bad.” He thrust out a hand and Tina went flying.

  
  


Percival was not having a good day. Apart from waking up and not being in that hellscape that he’d spent the last week in, it had been exhausting and bizarre and all he wanted was to have a  _ drink _ — 

When Tina went flying, he had his wand drawn and aimed, Credence safely behind him and Scamander off to his right.

“Now would be a good time, Mister Stanfield,” Percival shouted.

He got the impression of a wide smile, a strange red glint of eyes.

Stanfield was  _ behind _ Grindelwald— and there was a loud resounding crack, like a suddenly broken tree branch, and Grindelwald screamed, limbs twisted unnaturally, and he was collapsing forward. Stanfield stood behind him casually, twirling his wand casually.

“Wouldn’t killin’ him be easier?” Stanfield asked.

Percival let out a shuddering breath. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But it’s not legal.”

Stanfield shrugged, and when Grindelwald tried to stand up, kicked him swiftly, laying Grindelwald out cold. “You’re the paying customer,” Stanfield said calmly. 

Percival swallowed, and flicked his borrowed wand at Grindelwald to bind him in place.

“This, too,” Scamander said quietly. “ _ Revelio _ .”

The dark hair faded, face fading into another one.

“I think  _ now _ is an appropriate time to contact MACUSA,” Percival muttered, watching Scamander help Tina to her feet and turning back to Credence. “I am sorry, Credence.”

Credence shrugged, looking away. “I— I did something bad—” 

“There’s a senator,” Scamander said, leading Tina over. “The Obscurus killed him—”

Credence flinched, looking even more miserable.

“Like I asked before,” Stanfield said. “How long can you stay in that case?”

“A couple of weeks,” Scamander answered. “But what do you intend to—?”

“In a few days, I’m assigned on the train from Penn Station to San Francisco. Normally, I wouldn’t encourage train hopping, but you won’t actually be taking up seats, so.” Stanfield shrugged. “At the very least, you’ll be out of the way for a few days while I visit my family, though I’d have to ask you to stay put.”

“They’ll be  _ looking _ for a wizard leaving New York City,” Tina argued.

Stanfield raised his eyebrows. “You keep sayin’ stuff like that.” 

“Like what?” Scamander asked.

“I told you already, Mister Graves,” Stanfield said. “I don’t  _ know _ magic. That wasn’t my act.”

  
  


Now  _ those _ were some surprised faces. 

Claire put his hands in his pockets. “Really? How’s this a surprise to ya?”

“You… just took out one of the most powerful Dark Wizards of our time…” Tina said slowly. “Without magic.”

“Well, yeah,” Claire said. “Didn’t really need it though, did I?”

Tina muttered something, and flicked her wand his way, which Claire dodged easily. 

“Now that’s kinda rude, isn’t it?” Claire asked. He looked at Graves. “Trying to get out of paying what you owe me?”

“No,” Graves said quietly. “I’ll get you your payment. Mister Scamander, would you be agreeable to Mister Stanfield’s plan?”

“Hiding out for a few days would be best,” Scamander admitted. “If it’s all right with Credence.”

“Will— will I see you again, Mister Graves?” Credence asked timidly.

“Of course,” Graves said. Graves embraced Credence gently. “In a few days, alright?”

Credence nodded, sniffling again, and allowed himself to be directed into the suitcase.

“We need to pick up a friend first,” Scamander told Claire. “Um, if you’re okay with Apparition— that’s when—”

“He’ll be fine,” Graves interrupted. Claire handed him the wand from Grindelwald, and Graves greeted it like an old friend before looking at Claire. “If you’re not a wizard, where’d the wand come from?”

Claire grinned and waved his fingers. “I pickpocketed someone.”

Graves’ eyebrows flew up. “I see.”

“Friday, at seven,” Claire told Graves. “I’ll find you.”

“Yes,” Graves said quietly. “I suppose you will.”

Claire turned. “Mister Scamander?”

“It’s Newt, actually,” Newt said.

“As in the lizard?” Claire asked.

“As in Newton.” Newt picked up the suitcase and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Claire held on, and they were whisked away again, reappearing on a rooftop far from Central Park. Claire bounced on his toes with glee as Newt greeted the two figures huddled on the rooftop.

“Newt!” A woman stood up and rushed towards them. “What happened? Are you—?” She stopped suddenly, looking at Claire, face paling. “Who— who is this?”

“This is—” Newt stopped, turning to look at Claire. “I’m terribly sorry— I didn’t catch your full name.”

“Claire Stanfield.”

“Claire Stanfield,” Newt repeated, looking back to the woman. “This is Tina’s sister, Queenie. And my friend Jacob Kowalski—”

“Nice to meetcha,” Jacob said. “But what happened?”

“Mister Stanfield—”

“Claire’s fine.”

“Claire,” Newt said carefully, “Managed to knock out Grindelwald—”

“Oh, my,” Queenie said, putting a hand over her mouth and looking at Claire in astonishment. “But, he’s not magic?”

“He doesn’t have magic?” Jacob repeated. His expression when he turned to Claire again was full of newfound respect. “I heard this Grindelfelt was a pretty big deal—”

“Grindelwald,” Newt corrected, and Jacob nodded in agreement. “Listen, Jacob,” Newt continued, tone urgent. “Credence, the boy Tina protected, he’s the host to the creature that’s been destroying the city. It’s not his fault, but we need to lie low for a few days. I was wondering if you wanted to join me.” Newt shuffled his feet. “They might be looking to Obliviate you again.”

“Well, in that case!” Jacob said. “But what does that mean?”

“We’re going to stay in the case for a few days,” Newt explained. “Claire has agreed to hold on and protect the case during that time. Because he’s a muggle, they won’t go looking for him.”

“How’d you even  _ meet _ him?” Queenie asked.

“Graves— the real one— brought him.”

“I found Mister Graves in a magical box,” Claire said. “And was his bodyguard for the day.”

“So he’s paying you.”

“Eventually,” Claire shrugged. “At the very least it was something to keep me busy for the day.”

“I see,” Queenie said, her face pinched. “But… you’re not a good man.”

Claire shrugged. “No, I’m not. But I take my jobs seriously. They’ll be fine.” He spoke with utter conviction, and it’s this that convinces Queenie to nod.

“Stay safe, sweetie,” Queen ordered Jacob, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “See you soon enough.” She bit her lip and swirled out of sight.

“Right then.” Newt cleared his throat. “Friday evening?”

“Morning actually,” Claire said, almost apologetically. “Train leaves at 9:50, and I gotta be on it.”

“Right. Well, then. Jacob? I’ll follow you. Oh, and Credence is down there, don’t be alarmed.”

As soon as the lid was closed, Claire crouched, locked it, picked it up, and scaled down the fire escape one handed, humming cheerfully all the while. He came out on Ninth across from St Clement’s, and started the trek to where he’d hidden his own suitcase. 

It took the better part of an hour to get there, so he took the subway back to Hell’s Kitchen, walking the back alleys he still knew like the back of his own hand back to the place he grew up.

He stopped in front of a familiar door, took a breath, and knocked.

  
  


The next few days were busy. And filled with an inordinate amount of tests and questioning that left Percival exhausted and wanting to sleep for another few weeks.

Some of his injuries were permanent, the curses settled too deep, but the rest had healed well after, in Percival’s opinion, too many hours with a healer. His department was in shambles, with his employees either unable to meet his gaze or with blatant suspicion. Seraphina was beating herself up over not realizing anything sooner, but at the same time keeping her distance until the overseeing board wrote Percival off as innocent. 

It somehow was lonelier than being stuck in that box.

On Friday, he went in early, wanting to avoid the stares and ill-concealed whispers. He opened his office door and stopped.

Stanfield was perched on his desk, a copy of the  _ New York Ghost _ spread across the desk next to him, which he was perusing, suitcase across his lap.

Stanfield looked at him and grinned. “Mister Graves,” he said.

“Mister Stanfield,” Percival greeted, quickly shutting the door behind him. “May I ask… how you got in?”

Stanfield shrugged. “Just walked in and followed some signs.”

“You’re not supposed to even be  _ able _ to get in. Or even open the door—”

“I just tried hard enough,” Stanfield said, like that was an explanation for a no-maj to get into MACUSA past all the enchantments preventing no-majs, specifically, from getting in. Similar ones, and the recently  _ reinforced _ ones on his office, in addition to every spell he could think of to prevent someone from breaking and entering.

“My office can’t be unlocked—”

“By magic,” Stanfield finished, raising an eyebrow. “I’m decent at lockpicking, ya know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about that,” Percival admitted. “I was expecting you later.”

“Ah, sorry about that,” Stanfield said, looking sheepish. “Didn’t specify mornin’ or evenin’, but I gotta get back to work soon.”

Percival nodded slowly, setting his briefcase down by the desk and reaching into his coat to pull out an envelope. “Your payment,” he said simply, handing it over. 

Stanfield took it, and hopped off the desk to put down the suitcase, rapping on it three times before opening it.

Almost immediately, a head of reddish-brown hair popped up. “Oh!” Newt Scamander said, looking around. “It’s already time?”

“Yeah,” Stanfield said, holding out a hand to help Scamander out. “You discuss your plans?”

“Yes, though we’re hoping to finalize some things with Mister Graves,” Scamander said. A bowtruckle made its appearance from Scamander’s shoulder, speaking unintelligibly. Scamander paused, as if listening. “Oh, I don’t think that should be a problem.”

Pervical was vividly reminded of the stories Theseus used to tell about his little brother, about how he talked to his creatures as if they were his children. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

“Did you find all of your creatures safely?” Percival asked.

“Yes,” Scamander said, carefully bringing the bowtruckle to Stanfield, who held out a hand. “Quite frightened, of course, but they’ve been recovering admirably.”

Stanfield and the bowtruckle seemed to be locked in some kind of staring match, though Scamander didn’t seem too concerned, so Percival let them be. Scamander reached a hand into the case and helped out the no-maj man from yesterday, Kowalski, and then—

“Credence,” Percival greeted quietly.

Credence met his gaze and smiled. It was small, but definitely there and Percival felt something clamped tight around the heart in his chest ease.

“Hello,” he said quietly. 

“How are you?” Percival asked, voice still quiet.

Credence shrugged, and Percival felt his lips quirk upwards in response.

“I don’t think we’ll be taking the train, Claire,” Scamander said. “But thank you.”

Stanfield shrugged. “Fine by me.” He faced Percival. “You plan on wiping my memory then?”

Percival paused. “I would say yes, normally,” he began. “But somehow I don’t think I’d be able to land a hit on you.”

Stanfield smirked. “Oh? So you’re learning.”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Percival said dryly. “Or I’ll stop being lazy and organize a manhunt instead.”

Stanfield raised his hands placatingly. “I’ll get out of your hair, then,” he said, tucking the envelope into his coat pocket.

“Mister— I mean, Claire?” Credence began tentatively.

“Yeah, kid?”

Credence bit his lip and then lifted his chin. “You’re— you’re with the mafia, right?”

Stanfield looked at Credence assessingly, and Percival had the urge to step between them. Even  _ he _ knew who the mafia were. Kowalski, meanwhile, went absolutely white.

“Mafia adjacent is a better way to put it,” Stanfield said finally. “My foster brothers head the Gandor family.”

“I— I don’t want my Ma to die,” Credence said firmly, and Percival turned to him, startled. “You, you said you’d protect me but—” He let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t want her to die.” 

Stanfield’s gaze was calculating. “Why not?”

“Why not?” Credence repeated, blinking in confusion. “It’s— because it’s the right thing to do.”

Stanfield stared a little longer before sighing. “You honorable types, I just don’t get it.” His posture relaxed and the tension in the room seemed to fade with it. “Fine. For your sake, I won’t.”

Kowalski seemed a bit shaky, so Scamander led him to a chair to sit down. 

“Thank you,” Credence said, shoulders slumping.

Stanfield gave a small smile. It was quieter than anything Percival had seen so far and made him look more… human. It was somehow more disconcerting than anything else. “Don’t thank me, kid. Though, if you end up changing your mind, leave a message with the Gandors. They know how’ta get hold of me.”

Very carefully, Stanfield held up his hand for the bowtruckle which had somehow made it up to his shoulder and was staring at a single strand of Stanfield’s violently red hair in it’s tiny hands. The bowtruckle leapt onto the hand and was passed gently onto Scamander.

“Did you say thank you?” Scamander asked, and the bowtruckle babbled some more in whatever language it spoke.

“You’re welcome,” Stanfield said, holding out a pinky for the bowtruckle to shake— which it  _ did _ to Percival’s disbelief. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I gotta collect another fee uptown.” He waved cheerfully and left the office.

“He’s rather unusual for a muggle,” Scamander commented.

Kowalski gave a shaky laugh. “You’re telling me!”

It wasn’t until a few days later, after Scamander and Credence were safely on their way to Arizona (via Portkey), with promises for weekly, if not daily, updates, that Percival picked up a no-maj paper and saw a strange article:

_ WOMAN SHOWN HER SINS BY THE DEVIL; VOWS TO CHANGE HER WAYS _

The caption read:  _ He came out of nowhere, the woman said, A red devil ready to deal out punishments to the wicked. He knew my sins and showed what was waiting for me in Hell. I vowed to God that I would change for the better _ . _ The woman is currently on her way to Australia to spend her time in prayer and service, asking forgiveness for her sins. What these sins are, she seemed incapable of saying... _

There was a picture of Mary Lou Barebone under the heading.


End file.
